Keeping Her

by Holly Hart

  I immediately pick up on what she’s talking about. There are no interior camera angles on the screens in front of us. My heart sinks. If all we’ve got to go on are a couple of cameras pointing into the street, then we might as well give up now.

  “They are motion operated,” the auctioneer says, half quivering, half standing up proud as he explains how the system works. “It saves us from storing dozens of hours of footage.That’s hundreds of gigabytes a week…”

  I stare blankly at him. I couldn’t care less about the man’s video storage budget. He quickly quiets down.

  I sit down on an office chair, my cock flapping awkwardly between my bare legs. I swear that once or twice I catch him staring at my package.

  “Show me,” I growl. “Where can I find these logs?”

  I mentally switch back to a mindset I haven’t occupied for almost a decade. Most people think that being in the military – especially on a team as elite as the SEALs – is all about pulling triggers and throwing grenades, but they couldn’t be more wrong.

  Half the time, it’s about “hurry up and wait.” To be the best, you’ve got to be patient, hard-working, and have incredible attention for detail.

  It’s not quite as sexy, but it’s ten times more important than just being able to pull a trigger.

  “What’s your name, anyway,” I grumble, as the auctioneer guides me through the security system’s complex file structure.

  “It’s To – Tony,” he squeaks.

  I tip my head back and groan. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I mutter. “I came to a sex club emceed by a man called Tony…”

  Wisely, Tony chooses not to reply.

  I start scrolling through image thumbnails. It only takes a couple of seconds before my eyebrows hike up with interest. I have to admit it. I’m impressed. Apparently the club’s 5% fee isn’t all wasted. This is one hell of a security system.

  “They’re all–” I murmur, half out loud.

  “Faces,” Tony smiles anxiously, as if terrified by the room’s silence. “The system does it automatically.”

  I start scrolling through a long list of images, all faces of people. Instead of forcing the operator to watch through hour after hour of footage, the system categorizes each chunk of video according to the face – or faces – caught on film.

  “And this,” he says, leaning forward and tapping an icon on the screen, “indicates when the main door was operated.”

  I whistle out loud, not bothering to hide my approval. “Shit, I’m going to need to get one of these…”

  “So what does that mean?” Skye asks, nonplussed. “How does it help us?”

  “Well,” I say, sticking my tongue out as I concentrate. “It means we can narrow this footage down to anyone who entered the building.”

  I tap a button and hold my breath. The system hangs for a second, as if thinking, then a ping echoes out of the computer’s speakers.

  It’s done.

  “Now let’s see what we’ve got.”

  I scroll through a much-reduced list of images. Mostly it’s Tony – now sans mask – and a couple of assistants. I wish I could trace their movements inside the club itself in order to rule them out as suspects, but that’s not possible.

  “Who’s that guy?” I growl, tapping an image on-screen. The man in the picture is wearing a baseball cap with a UPS logo on it.

  “Oh,” Tony says dismissively, “that guy? No way. He’s been coming here for years.”

  “Another one bites the dust then,” I mutter.

  I almost scroll past it. Sandwiched between the images of Tony and his staff leaving the building last night and returning this morning, one man enters.

  “Who the hell is that?” Tony breathes. He taps the screen excitedly. “This guy – I’ve got no idea who he is. It has to be him. But how did he get inside? This building’s got the best locks money can buy.”

  If the security system I’m currently operating is anything to go by, then Tony’s telling the truth – the club spared no expense keeping its members safe, and most of all, private. But as I move the mouse towards the icon, I have a funny feeling that no matter how good the locks were, they wouldn’t have worked.

  Because I recognize the man in the image. I double-click on the thumbnail. Just to be sure.

  And when my suspicions are confirmed, my stomach drops like a rollercoaster with broken brakes. Because this is all my fault.

  I should have returned that phone call.

  231

  Harlan

  “I’m coming with you,” Skye says. She’s sitting next to me in the back of my limousine, and we’re driving – being driven, anyway – through a glittering New York nighttime cityscape.

  Her face is ashen white, and she’s trembling. For all her bravery, she’s not used to operating in this world, not like I am…

  …or was, anyway. It’s been a long time since I last went to war. Because that’s exactly what it seems is about to happen.

  “No way,” I mutter. “I’ll finish this, Skye. I promise you, Tonight. But I can’t involve you. It’s too dangerous. I wouldn’t ever be able to forgive myself if something happened to you.”

  “Tell me who he is again?” Skye says, turning her glorious blue eyes on me. Instead of the excitement – and nervousness – I saw on this journey earlier this evening, now I see fear.

  For me? For us? I cannot tell.

  “Garibaldi,” I spit. “Sounds like an opera singer’s name, doesn’t it? But believe me, there’s nothing sweet about this guy. He’s a killer, no kidding. I didn’t find out ‘til it was too late.”

  “So he invested in Wolfe Capital,” Skye says, squinting at me. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “He’s no investor,” I growl, making air quotes with my fingers. “He’s just a front for the New York mob – a clean face for dirty money. Hell, the first time he walked through my doors when I was just setting up shop, I thought he was a gift from heaven. He put the capital in to allow me to take the firm to the next level. I made the prick hundreds of millions.”

  “So why’s he coming after you?” Skye asks apprehensively. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” I mutter. Then I grimace. If this thing between Skye and I is going to last, then I need to tell her the truth, the whole truth … and nothing but.

  “Okay, I’ll come clean,” I say, ignoring the habit of a lifetime of keeping my mouth shut about topics like this.

  “When I found out where his money was coming from, I kicked Garibaldi to the curb. Gave him his dirty cash back, and told him we were done.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, I thought. By that time, I figured Wolfe Capital was too big for him to fuck with.”

  “So what changed?”

  “A week ago, Wolfe Capital had the best quarter any hedge fund on Wall Street has had since the recession, profits up 115% quarter to quarter. That’s – ”

  “– Crazy,” Skye finishes for me as she smiles, even if just wanly. “Even I know that.”

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “I doubled the fund’s value in little more than three months. It’s unheard of. Well,” I smile, a hint of embarrassment touching my cheeks, “I guess you had a little something to do with that, too. My traders have been on fire since you started digging around in their heads.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Skye says. “What’s Garibaldi’s part in all of this?”

  “He wants in, I guess,” I shrug. “Back into my fund, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get there.”

  “But that’s –”

  “– Crazy,” I grin, switching our roles from a moment before. “I know. But that’s how it is in this city. Some people will do anything for money – kill, fight, screw over anyone for a buck. It’s like a seedy, greedy version of Game of Thrones…”

  “So … what’s the plan, then?” Skye asks, grimacing with determination. “How do we beat th
is guy?”

  I grin, and feel the limousine slow beneath me as we pull up outside my apartment. A member of my personal security detail opens each passenger door the very second the car slows to a halt.

  “The plan,” I say, as Skye steps out, obviously waiting for me to follow. Instead I lean toward her, over the middle seat, “is for you to stay in my apartment. You’ll be safe there.”

  “Wait!” Skye yells.

  “I’m going to finish this, Skye,” I yell as my security guard holds her back. “You have my word.”

  Skye’s door thuds shut. A second later, so does mine, but not before I accept a heavy duffle bag. It’s old, frayed … and smells faintly of saltwater.

  I turn it over in my hands as the limousine’s engine powers back up beneath me. I run my fingers across the rough canvas. There, embroidered on my bag, like it was a decade before, I see a label that brings back an ocean of memories.

  Sergeant Harlan A. Wolfe, Team Six.

  I press my phone to my ear, watching idly as New York zips by outside the limousine’s window. I know Skye’s gonna hate me for the stunt I just pulled. I don’t blame her.

  “You’re sure,” I mutter.

  “Yes, boss,” the voice on the other end of the line squeaks. He’s a pale kid called Ridley, if my memory serves. He’s from Wolfe Capital’s security division – computer security, specifically.

  The way today is turning out – I’m going to have to give him a pay raise.

  After all, I just woke him up and asked him to hack into a computer owned by a man who’s affiliated with the New York mob. It’s not every day you piss off both the government and the Mafia before breakfast…

  Pay raise it is.

  “Yes. It’s him, the man you’re looking for. The, ah –” his voice breaks anxiously, “evidence you’re looking for – it’s right here.”

  I rub my eyes, realizing that right at this moment, Ridley is most likely looking at photos of my butt naked … butt.

  “Can you delete it?” I ask, collecting myself.

  “The second you tell me to, boss,” he squeaks. “But–”

  I breathe out heavily. “But he might have backups.”

  Ridley sounds surprised. “Exactly.”

  “Delete it anyway,” I order. “Do whatever you have to do, just make sure you don’t leave a trace – either of the photos, or of you hacking into his system. Capisci?”

  “You got it, boss. There’s – there’s one more thing.”

  I can’t help but be intrigued by the hesitancy to Ridley’s tone. “What?”

  “I’m not sure if it matters, but it looks like this guy’s in debt.”

  “Debt?” Now that makes no sense – or – does it?

  “Yeah. I can access his financial statements, and he’s deep into the red.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  “Looks …” Ridley pauses, and I hear a mouse clicking on the other end of the line, “… looks like a divorce settlement, boss. Alimony going out, like clockwork. It started about … about three months ago.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks, boss.”

  “And Ridley?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Stay quiet about what you saw tonight, understand? This isn’t office gossip.”

  “Yes – yes, boss.”

  Click.

  I hang up the phone, deep in thought. Thankfully, the call lasted long enough that we’ve already arrived in my target area. I blink, surprised – and a little disturbed – at how easily I’ve slipped back into my old ways of thinking.

  It’s not a target area, it’s just Brooklyn…

  I push a button on the panel to my left, and the privacy screen separating me from the driver’s cabin rolls silently down.

  “Leave me here,” I mutter. My driver slows to a stop, doing as I ask without a word in response. He knows better than that.

  The screen rolls back up, and I make last-minute preparations. I trust my staff, but there are some things they simply do not need to see.

  I withdraw a loaded 9mm pistol from the duffel bag and stuff it down the back of my pants. In the old days, I’d go in fully loaded: semiautomatic rifle strapped to my chest, grenades pinned to my waist, and hundreds of rounds of ammunition stuffed in every pocket I could find.

  But not tonight.

  Not in the middle of one of the world’s biggest cities. Sure as heck not when I’ve got so much to live for. The last thing Poppy needs is to grow up with her father behind bars.

  No, a 9mm will do just fine. I hope not to have to use it at all, but I like the security of the familiar weapon. It fits into my palm as though it were molded perfectly for my hand.

  I step out of the vehicle, blending easily into the night. I look like any Uber passenger stepping out of his ride. I don’t attract a single undue eyeball.

  That’s just the way I like it.

  Garibaldi’s place is unmistakable. It’s the only one, on a row of old, red brick, Brooklyn townhouses, with gaudy gold fittings on its bright red door. I guess some people don’t change. Especially not men like him.

  I walk the block to check for unexpected security, passing a woman in pajamas walking her purse-sized dog.

  I work through what I know of the man. Besides a predilection for showmanship – as tonight’s events have shown – I now know Garibaldi’s single once more. I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine any woman would want to end up with a man like him. But it makes my life easier – no civilian to catch a stray bullet if it all goes to shit.

  I roll my shoulders, loosening up as best I can. It’s not as easy as it was a decade ago. I guess that makes sense. I was younger then. Now I’m just more scarred and less flexible.

  But, nevertheless, age has its benefits.

  I’m a smarter man than I was a decade ago. More cunning, and more skillful. Garibaldi is about to find out that there’s a reason smart people don’t tangle with Harlan fucking Wolfe.

  And seriously, I think one last time. What the hell kind of name is that?

  I circle the building one last time, and position myself in the shadows behind a parked black Range Rover. The car’s entirely unsuited for New York’s cramped parking spaces, but it does a hell of a job of concealing my presence.

  I eyeball Garibaldi’s house. It’s covered with decades-old ivy, but I’m no fool. There’s no way that plant will bear my weight.

  Nope. I’m going to have to do this old-school. get down and dirty.

  Decision made, I move fast.

  It’s the only way to act. It’s the only way to stop second-guessing your actions. That’s the quickest path to a Special Forces operator getting himself killed in the field. Bullets move fast, so you’ve got to think faster.

  I walk nonchalantly up the small path that leads to the front of Garibaldi’s house. I use the cover of darkness where I can, but mostly don’t bother. It’s late enough that most of the world’s asleep. He’s got an alarm unit mounted strategically on the front of the building, but it doesn’t worry me.

  I fully expect to be in and out before anyone even picks up on my entry. Move fast, strike hard. That’s my motto, the same as it’s been ever since the day I joined the SEALs.

  I try the front door, but as I expected, it’s locked up tight. I wish I’d had the foresight to have had my assistant provide me with a lock picking kit, but no such luck. So I take the next easiest option, the window to the right of the front door.

  I click my flashlight on, and a dim red beam plays out across the panes – red because it’s hard to see from afar, and because it doesn’t ruin my night vision.

  “You got cocky in your old age, huh?” I mutter. As far as I can tell there’s no alarm sensor on the freshly painted French windows.

  For once, tonight, my luck might just be good.

  I scan the neighborhood, searching for a nosy dog walker, or anyone peeping out of a nearby window. It’s always the elderly you have to worry about on nights like thi
s. They can’t sleep, and they’ve got nothing better to do than stare out of the window into the darkness.

  Hell – I’ve been there myself. Regrets, I’ve had a few. I’ve had more than my fair share of long, dark nights of the soul. I guess as you get older, the regrets pile up, and the doubts deepen.

  “Quit bellyaching, Harlan,” I mutter, or at least think loudly enough to chide myself. I glance around one last time, and then act.

  I grab my pistol, reverse it so I’m holding it by the barrel, and then tap it hard against the nearest glass pane. It cracks, then splinters. I wince as the shattered glass tinkles against the floor.

  I freeze, barely daring to breathe. I force myself to stop and listen out for any sign of danger.

  One, Mississippi.

  Two, Mississippi.

  Three, Mississippi.

  Four, Mississippi.

  Five, Mississippi…

  I relax. As far as I can tell, no one noticed my act of vandalism. If they did, they don’t appear to care. It’s either that, or the police are already on their way.

  But if they are, there’s nothing I can do about it.

  I stick my fingers through the hole I’ve created in the glass window, and start to tug away at the huge shards of glass that still guard the frame like fence spikes. I pull them away one after another, and toss them into a flower bed, where they land silently.

  One by one, the jagged glass teeth disappear, until I’m left with just enough space for a man’s body to fit through. My body, to be precise. I smooth out the last of the glass with the butt of my pistol – just enough to avoid my carotid artery being sliced in two – and climb through, weapon held at the ready.

  My combat vest scrapes against the window frame, and picks up shards of glass that line my front like glittering diamonds. My boots crunch against yet more glass on the floor on the other side. I barely hear the sounds, too focused on whether the alarm’s about to wail, or whether Garibaldi’s going to meet me on the wrong side of the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun…

  But I hear nothing dangerous, and see even less – just darkness in the front room of the Brooklyn townhouse. Plus some strange, globe-like white shapes that loom out of the darkness, like the sails of some old time sailing ship.